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Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra

Page 29

by Stephen Lawhead


  The next flat hilltop was two hilltops away. Treet slowed the skimmer as it crested the hill and parked it so the solar panel could pick up the last of the sun’s rays. He slowly unfolded himself from the driver’s position and stretched out the kinks. According to the odometer on the skimmer’s control panel they had covered slightly over two hundred and eighty kilometers since their last stop, which worked out to around five hundred and sixty for the day. Not too bad for the first day.

  Treet did a few quick toe touches and torso twists as the others climbed down from their vehicles. “I feel like one of those old-time cowboys,” said Pizzle. “You know, like Roy Rogers. I believe I’m getting saddle sores.”

  “You look a little bowlegged,” said Treet, flipping open the storage compartment of the skimmer and pulling out the long tent envelope. He carried the tent to a level spot and dumped it out. The others chose spots nearby and began setting up their tents.

  “Let’s keep them fairly close together,” said Crocker, “so we can talk to each other.”

  “Who’s going to be talking?” said Treet. “Once I crawl inside, I’m sound asleep.”

  “It’s eat first and then sleep for me,” said Yarden. “I’m starved.”

  Crocker warned, “We’d better make our food last. It might be a while before we find anything edible out here.” When no one responded, he went on more insistently, “I mean it! No more than a few mouthfuls—eat just what you need to keep yourself going. And drink only a swallow.”

  “Aye, aye. Captain Bligh,” grouched Treet. “We get the picture. Let’s don’t dwell on it.”

  “Look, Treet. Maybe you’d prefer leading this expedition yourself. It’s not in my contract that I have to be Bwana, you know.”

  “I didn’t mean that you—I mean, I—” stuttered Treet. “Oh, forget it. We’re exhausted, and we’re all stressed out. Let’s just get the tents up and go to sleep.”

  The sun had nearly dropped below the fading hill line when they climbed into the tents: Treet and Calin into one—the magician would not go with anyone else—and Crocker and Pizzle in another, since Yarden did not express an interest in sharing quarters with either of them and the men were hesitant to suggest otherwise.

  Treet backed into the half-hoop structure, pulling two spare air canisters in after him. He sealed the mivex entrance and then opened the connector valves of both flat canisters, allowed air to bleed off while he counted seconds, and then said into his mike, “I’ve had both valves wide open for ninety seconds. Now what?”

  “Take your helmet off,” said Pizzle.

  “You take your helmet off!”

  “It’ll work, don’t worry,” Pizzle coaxed. “Trust me.”

  “I don’t know why I’m the guinea pig, but here goes.” He took a deep breath and placed his hands on either side of the helmet, gave a three-quarter twist, and lifted it off, holding it above his head for quick replacement. He let his breath out and paused, then sniffed experimentally. Okay, so far. He drew more air in and held it—nothing unusual. Calin sat cross-legged at the far end of the tent, watching him with wide eyes. Then he gulped a deep breath and announced, “It works! Hey, it works!”

  He breathed deeply, in and out again a few times. Besides a faint metallic tang on the back of his tongue, the air seemed perfect.

  “It feels great to get out of that plastic bubble!” He heard a faint voice, like the voice of his conscience buzzing at him. He picked up his helmet again.

  “You forget something?” It was Crocker.

  “Are you all right?” inquired Yarden with some concern.

  “Yeah, sorry. It works perfect. You can take your helmets off now.” He waited a few seconds and then hollered, “Isn’t that better?”

  “Marvelous!” came Yarden’s answer through the tent membrane.

  “Sweet relief!” called Pizzle.

  Treet took Calin’s helmet off as she made no move to do it herself. She looked at him oddly and then curled up in a ball where she sat. He opened their emergency pouches and brought out some food for them—dry wafers with the texture and taste of dog biscuits. He gave a couple to Calin and crunched down two himself, then rinsed his mouth with a few sparing sips of water.

  He placed one of the flat air canisters under his head for a pillow and stretched out. Calin remained curled at one end of the tent. Rather than try to move her, Treet lay diagonally across the floor so that he would not have to keep his knees flexed all night. “Nighty night,” Treet called as he settled himself to sleep.

  He heard some mumbling from Pizzle and Crocker’s tent, but closed his eyes and was asleep at once.

  FORTY

  The dog biscuits tasted no better just before dawn the next morning, but by then he was hungry enough to eat rocks. At least the single sip of water he allowed himself was refreshing. Calin awoke at Treet’s merest touch and rose without speaking. They donned their helmets and climbed out of the tent. Treet walked down one side of the hill, Calin the other as the sky turned pink low in the east. Treet stood looking at the dawn-dulled sky, noting a line of gray clouds with rosy feathered edges chugging westward far to the south. Otherwise, the heavens were uniformly void.

  When he retraced his steps up the hill, he met Pizzle coming down. “Sleep okay?” he asked.

  “Fair. Crocker muttered all night; I think he’s still hurting.”

  “Crocker can hear you, you know.” The voice was Crocker’s, loud in their helmet speakers. “I’ll be all right. Don’t you worry about me. I won’t slow anybody up.”

  “Sorry,” Pizzle said quickly. “I wasn’t implying anything.”

  Treet turned to see Crocker stumbling down the hill toward them. “Is it true, Crocker? Are you in pain?”

  “No!” the Captain denied, a little too forcefully. “Just worry about yourselves.”

  “We could stay put for a day or two and let you get some rest…”

  Crocker jabbed a finger at Treet’s chest. “Nobody is doing any such thing on my account. We’d waste food and water which we might well need later on.”

  “I didn’t mean anything,” said Pizzle sullenly.

  “Yes, we know you didn’t mean anything,” snapped Treet. “Forget it. Let’s get the tents down and head out.”

  The sun’s pearl-white disk was peeping above the eastern hill line by the time everyone was ready. The skimmer’s whine, muffled by the helmet, climbed into the upper registers, and Treet eased back the joystick for another day’s journey.

  “Keep the sun to your back and spread out. We can’t afford any accidents,” he said as his skimmer slid out over the grass, gliding down the hill into the shadowed valley.

  Treet again took the lead, Calin maintaining a steady speed a little ways back on his left hand, Yarden nearly even on the right. The three vehicles churned their way across the rippled landscape, passing from sunlight into shadow as the turquoise hills rose and fell in even waves.

  The next two days were perfect copies of the first. They ate, slept, woke, and traveled the wide, hill-bound country, which showed no variation and gave no indication of ever changing at all. A more monotonous land Treet could not imagine.

  This, Treet reminded himself, could be considered a blessing, for it meant that their travel was unimpeded by the more diverting variations of scenery and weather. If there was nothing much to look at, at least no obstacles hindered them.

  About midday the fourth day out, they halted to stretch and take another directional reading—as much as possible. Treet sat on the ground, tucked his knees up to his chest, and rolled on his back, working the kinks out of his lower spine. While the others were walking and limbering up, he approached Calin, who was sitting by herself on the ground next to the skimmer.

  Her eyes were focused on something far away in the distance when he came up. He squatted down beside her and tapped her helmet. When she failed to acknowledge his presence, he reached out and touched her radio switch. “Calin, I haven’t heard a squeak out of you since yes
terday. Are you feeling okay?”

  Calin did not move when he addressed her, but remained immobile, arms encircling updrawn knees, vision fixed on the unvarying horizon.

  “Did you hear me?” Treet leaned toward her. “Calin?”

  “Can I help?” Yarden dropped down beside him on her knees.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with her. She hasn’t said a word all day.”

  As Treet spoke, the magician’s body began to shiver, though the sun was warm and the breeze fair. “Calin? Listen to me. Calin?”

  The tremors became more pronounced. She raised her head, and Treet saw in her eyes a vacant, mindless stare—the look of a wild creature shivering with fright. He placed a hand on her shoulder and felt her muscles rigid and cold beneath his touch. “She’s stiff as stone!”

  Her head began thrashing inside her helmet. Her mouth worked silently behind closed lips, and a keening moan sounded in the helmet speakers. Her eyelids fluttered as her eyeballs rolled up into their sockets. Blood trickled from her mouth. “Her tongue—she’s chewing her tongue!” cried Treet. “We’ve got to do something!”

  Yarden bent close, putting her arms around the trembling woman. “Calin, this is Yarden.” She spoke softly, calmly. “I’m going to take your helmet off.”

  “You can’t do that!” shouted Treet. “It could kill her!”

  Yarden moved behind the magician and cradled her trembling body. “She’ll die anyway—she’s swallowed her tongue. She’s choking!”

  It was true. Calin’s face was now tinted a ghastly shade of purple; her lips were blue.

  Yarden put her hands on either side of the helmet and gave a sharp twist. She pulled it off and forced Calin’s jaws open with one hand, reaching deftly in with her long fingers and flipping the magician’s curled tongue forward.

  Calin gulped air and instantly her eyes bulged out in terror. “Aaiiee!” She screamed a ragged, throat-tearing scream which, even through the sound-dampening properties of their helmets, sounded like a death rattle. Her hands clawed at the air.

  “For God’s sake, get her helmet back on!” boomed Crocker, running up.

  Pizzle stood frozen a little way off, staring at the writhing woman on the ground before him. Yarden still knelt beside her, holding her head. Calin inhaled and screamed again, this time her voice faint and far away. “Aaiiee! It bur-r-n-n-s!”

  Treet snatched up her helmet and thrust it forward.

  “No!” said Yarden.

  “You’re killing her!” cried Treet. He moved to put the helmet over Calin’s head, but Yarden shoved it aside.

  “No, wait!”

  “Talazac!” roared Crocker. “Get that helmet back on her right now. What do you think you’re doing?”

  Treet stooped with the helmet in his hands. Yarden resisted once more. “Please stop. It’ll be all right. Just wait a moment.”

  “What’s gotten into you?” said Treet. He hesitated, his hands thrust out with the helmet between them. “Do you want her to die?”

  “Wait, she’s right,” said Pizzle. “Look.”

  Calin lay still now, her color improving and her breathing, though still ragged and shallow, developing a more regular rhythm. She whimpered and moaned, but her limbs had stopped trembling and her head no longer thrashed. “It burns,” she rasped.

  “Well, I never—” observed Crocker. “She seems to be coming out of it.”

  “Get her some water,” ordered Yarden. Pizzle returned seconds later with one of the pouches. He held up the collapsible plastic canteen to Calin’s lips and she swallowed, her features convulsing with pain. “Her throat’s a little sore I imagine,” said Yarden, putting her hands to her own helmet.

  “Wait! You’re not thinking of taking off your helmet.” Treet stared incredulously at Yarden. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “She needs me,” replied Yarden simply. “I have to talk to her.” She gave the helmet a quick twist and pulled it off. She paused, eyes closed, laying the helmet aside. Then she inhaled.

  The pain twisted her features monstrously. She gulped air and shuddered, collapsing against the side of the skimmer. Her hands went to her throat, which she grasped as if she were trying to strangle herself. Tears streamed from her eyes. “Ahh! Ah-hh-hh …”

  “Yarden! Put your helmet back on!” shouted Treet. He leaped forward, took up the headgear, and lowered it over Yarden’s head. Her eyes flew open, and she knocked it away.

  “Help me, you two!” Treet shouted to Pizzle and Crocker, who stood motionless behind him. “Yarden, you’re suffocating.”

  “She can’t hear you anymore,” said Crocker.

  Treet raised the helmet once more, but Yarden reached out, gripped his arm, and dug her nails in. “She doesn’t want it,” said Pizzle. “She’s over it.”

  Yarden’s eyes opened slowly. She smiled weakly, painfully, then bent over the quivering magician and spoke to her. Treet saw her mouth move, but could not hear the words. Then Yarden straightened and turned to Treet, put her hands on his helmet, and nodded.

  Treet shook his head furiously and grabbed her wrists. She smiled and mouthed the words. Trust me. He hesitated, then took a deep breath, and nodded. The helmet twisted and came off. Treet sat back on his heels, still holding his breath.

  “Let it out slow and breathe in slow,” said Yarden in a grating whisper. “It will sting like fury, but you’ll be okay.”

  Sting wasn’t the word for it. As Treet inhaled, it felt as if all his soft tissues had suddenly burst into flame—as if his nasal passages, throat, and windpipe had ignited. His lungs convulsed with the shock. Angry red flares erupted in his brain. It seemed as if he breathed pure fire.

  The scream he loosed was far from pretty. It bubbled in his throat and tore up through his vocal cords in an explosive burst only to trail off into an agonized, choking wheeze. Tears blinded his eyes and he squirmed convulsively on the ground, thrashing from side to side.

  “Don’t fight it,” Yarden soothed. He felt her hands on his chest. “Breathe in slowly. Stay on top and ride it out.”

  Treet fought the pain, pushing it down with an effort. He opened his eyes and saw Yarden bending over him, her eyes bright, coaxing him with encouragement. “You’re almost through the worst,” she said in a voice frayed and ragged.

  He drew another shallow, shaky breath and felt his scorched tissues wilt. The pain seared through his lungs; it felt as though they had been turned inside out and singed with acid. He coughed and moaned.

  His next breath was better, and the next better still. The pain subsided to a sharp tingle. He raised himself slowly, wiping the tears from the side of his neck. Calin sat looking at him, panting lightly as if she’d run a sprint to reach him. Yarden smiled. “Not so bad,” she said hoarsely.

  “Not if you’re used to eating fire,” replied Treet, his throat raw as frazzled wire.

  Yarden motioned to Pizzle and Crocker to remove their helmets, but the two refused, backing away cautiously. Treet did not blame them in the least; in fact, he marveled at himself for acquiescing so readily to Yarden’s request. Why had he done that?

  “Let them keep them on if they want,” rasped Treet. He drew a tentative deep breath and though it still stung fiercely, the pain was not what it had been moments before. He could bear it. “Why did you do that, Yarden?”

  She looked perplexed. “I don’t know. I had a feeling about it—a strong feeling that we should do it. Calin had to have help in any case. I had to get to her.”

  “What do you mean we should do it? How could you know that?”

  “I don’t think I can explain it to you. It just seemed right, that’s all. Besides, I couldn’t bear the thought of being trapped in that thing for the rest of my life.”

  “Come on—the rest of your life?”

  “I’m never going back to the colony.” Yarden said this with utmost self-assurance, as if stating the most evident fact.

  Before Treet could ask her about her declaration, Crocker tapped
him on the shoulder. Treet glanced up into the faceplate and saw the Captain’s mouth forming broad, muted words which he couldn’t read. Treet shook his head. “You’re going to have to spell it out! I can’t hear you,” he shouted.

  “He says we should put our helmets back on. It’s dangerous without them,” offered Yarden.

  Treet straightened and slipped his helmet on briefly. “I really don’t think it’s dangerous,” he said into the mike. “I think you should take yours off—both of you.”

  “Funny, you don’t look crazy,” quipped Pizzle.

  “Suit yourselves. I don’t care what you do. But I think Yarden is right—this way is better.”

  Pizzle and Crocker swiveled to look at one another. They shook their heads, and Pizzle spoke for both of them. “No way. We saw you jerking around on the ground.”

  “No pain, no gain,” said Treet, removing the headpiece once more.

  He turned to the woman. “You gave us a scare, Calin. Do you feel any better now?”

  The slender magician nodded slightly. “I was afraid.”

  “I’ll say. But what were you afraid of?”

  She looked at him blankly and made no answer.

  “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter. We can talk about it later. Right now we need for you to get in touch with Nho and ask him about direction.”

  Calin went still and her eyes lost their focus. Yarden looked at her and said, “You shouldn’t make her do that.”

  “She does it. I don’t make her,” Treet replied. “You act as if all this is my fault somehow. Let me tell you—it’s not my fault!”

  Calin came to herself again. “Nho says we are going the right way.”

  “That’s all? Would he care to elaborate?”

  “There is nothing else to say now.”

  They each took a sip of water, Pizzle and Crocker looking on thirstily, then remounted the skimmers again to slide even further into the hill-rumpled waste.

  FORTY-ONE

  That night Yarden sat alone on the hillside just below the hoop-shaped tents. Pizzle and Crocker were sealed in their tent, and Calin, who had earlier decided to join Yarden, was asleep in hers while Treet walked the tightness out of his legs and shoulders, striding up and down the nearby hills, swinging his arms. His lungs still ached—as if he’d run a very fast ten thousand meters—but the sharp burning sensation was gone. He came upon Yarden and flopped down beside her. Neither spoke for a long time.

 

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